Stay With Me
by LieutenantDebraMorgan
Summary: Starting at the scene where Deb finally tells Dexter she loves him in Season 7, this story takes a bit of a different direction from the actual show. There should be some Debster stuff, and hopefully I can do justice to the characters I love so much.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Dexter

Human feelings have overcome me in such a rush. I've given in to primitive demands of wanting things here and now. To defy my sister seems enticing, a small price to pay for the reward that a life with Hannah McKay would surely be. I'm consumed with thoughts of my fingers in her soft, blonde hair. I imagine my body entwined with hers, our flesh connecting and burning into the very depths of me. My thoughts are strange and new. I can't determine if they're a pleasant contrast from my usual thirst for blood. Both leave me feeling powerless and hungry for action. Even now, as I look at my sister, I'm distracted.

"Do you love her?" Deb asks.

I think of Hannah's lips and the way they fit with mine. The way she pulls me tighter and cancels out the rest of the world. A smile plays at my lips.

"I don't know," I answer. It's the wrong response. Deb looks as if I've just slapped her. I'm confuse. My sister, who accepts me as a serial killer, looks wounded at the idea of me falling in love. Shouldn't she want that for me? At the very least, I could become someone else's responsibility.

"I don't wanna hurt you," I tell her.

"Well guess what, you did," she answers, her tone defensive and hostile. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes as she chokes, her chest caving into the rest of her body. "You've picked the one way you could hurt me worse than you could ever fucking understand." She manages to squeeze the words from her lungs, made difficult by the lump in her throat brought on by the tears. But I can't comprehend. It's like I'm killing her, draining the life from her soul, but it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any sense. I know she doesn't care for Hannah, but this response seems extreme.

"You told me you accepted me being a killer, I feel like if you love me you'll accept this," I say. I don't realize how childish the words sound until they've escaped, and Deb immediately explodes with emotion.

"If I love you? If I love you?!" she shrieks. "I went to the church the night you killed Travis Marshall to tell you I'm _in_ love with you!"

Suddenly I understand, and everything becomes clearer. My sister.

"You're...in love with me?" I ask, my voice quiet and subdued. Everything inside of me has shattered, fallen apart at this realization. My sister is in love with me. The certainty I felt about Hannah just moments ago vanishes, replaced by the uncharted territory my sister has just crossed, pulling me with her. I don't understand much, but I understand that I can't allow her to go it alone.

"I didn't mean to say that," she chokes. "I know it's weird and it's gross and it's fucked up, and I know you don't feel the same..."

"Deb," I breathe. My body reacts mindlessly, and I sit next to her, reaching my arm around her thin shoulders, which heave with sobs at what I've done to her. I pull her closer to me and she buries her face in my chest, spluttering and wailing. "Shh, shh," I say, my arms grasping tighter. "I'm here. I've got you."

I admire the beauty of her, this perfect example of what it means to have real emotions. She's trying to calm herself, to breathe deeper, but hiccups still interrupt her sighs. Though her face is hidden from me, I can feel her tears soaking through the fabric of my shirt, warm and damp on the skin over my heart.

"I'm sorry," I tell her quietly, because I know she deserves better. She deserves someone perfect, an angelic human being, and I am a destructive monster. But my sister fits more perfectly in my arms than Hannah ever could. Nothing compares to the comfort I feel in this moment. I inhale Deb's familiar scent, the aroma of laundry detergent, clean and peaceful, mixed with slight tones of vanilla and coconut emanating from her hair, warm and inviting. Her hair. I bury my nose in it, and I stroke the palm of my hand from her scalp to the place where the strands end on her back. Her hair is as smooth as silk, but better because it belongs to her. I twist it through my fingers, gathering and releasing, allowing it to fall back into place. I wonder if I ever did this to my mother, as little boys sometimes do. I wonder if it felt like this, if I thought about it as I watched her die. The feeling wrenches through my chest, and I focus instead on Deb's breathing, which seems slower, calmer.

"We should get you to bed," I tell her. She turns her face suddenly upward.

"Stay with me," she replies. "Dex, don't leave. I need you. I don't want to know how you feel, it doesn't matter, but I don't want to be alone tonight."

Technically speaking, I know that I have a choice, but really, I'll always choose her. I lead her inside, her arm on mine, and I sit on her bed, waiting as she gets ready for bed in the bathroom. I listen to the water running and attempt to drown out any thoughts crossing my mind. Deb needs me, and the least I can do is be here for her. The bathroom door clicks open and Deb appears in a loose shirt and cotton pajama shorts. I shift over to make room for her in the bed. She crawls under the covers, but I remain above them as she turns out the light and settles her head into the pillow.

I lay down beside her, and her body adjusts to fit next to me. My right arm encircles her body, while my left arm, bent at the elbow, props my head slightly up. Her scent as changed faintly, perhaps with the addition of some kind of face lotion, but it still comforts me more than any drug ever could. Neither of us speaks, but I continue to hold her as her body relaxes and her breathing slows until she's surely asleep.

As I gently let go of her, she stirs in her sleep. I gently gather her hair from the side of her face, fanning it out on the pillow behind her. I lean my nose in my lips in, to touch the space of her neck just below her little ear. "I love you, Deb," I whisper, though she can't possibly hear me. I stroke her hair one last time, before getting up, careful not to jostle the bed in any way. I silently make my escape, stealing away into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_Notes: Thank you everyone who read and reviewed my first chapter! You guys are amazing and very flattering. I'm sorry for taking so long to come out with Chapter 2...Since I wrote the chapter from Deb's perspective it was a lot of pressure-she's my favorite character, and we don't hear a lot of her inner thoughts during the show, so I really wanted to do her justice. Still not sure about what I've done here, but we'll see! Enjoy!_

Chapter 2: Debra

Dexter's eyes look pleadingly at me from the chair where he sits, handcuffed. Angel stands behind him, also bearing a sad look. I'm in a chair, and as I start to move my arms, tight handcuffs restrain my own wrists. This is how it ends. The two of us going down together.

"I love him. I really fucking love him, Angel," I manage to say, but I know it isn't a sufficient explanation for this betrayal. The guilt weighs on me, a lieutenant being an accomplice to murder, and I know that I'm a terrible person. Would Harry be proud of the way I handled this situation? Who knows? After the shitstorm he's left us in, I'm not sure if his opinion even matters to me anymore.

"Aunt Deb, Aunt Deb, Aunt Deb!"

Harrison is here? Oh, God. Harrison. What's going to happen to him?

"Aunt Deb! Aunt Deb!"

Where is he? I look around, but I'm surrounded only by the fluorescent-lit white walls of the interrogation room.

"Aunt Deb, wake _up_!"

Suddenly, I'm jolted awake as a 30-pound mess topped with blond hair crashes into my side.

"Harrison, you're hurting me!" I shout, startled.

"Sorry, Sorry," he replies quickly, shrinking back sheepishly. "Daddy made breakfast. Pancakes!"

"It's okay, buddy," I tell him. "But you scared me! I was sleeping, and I'm still really tired."

"It's ten o'clock," he tells me, in an accusatory tone. I smile. Fucking kids.

"Come here," I tell him, and I gather my adorable nephew in my arms, stealing cuddles from him. It lasts for about two seconds.

"Aunt Deb, I'm hungry," Harrison whines.

"Okay, okay, we're going," I tell him. He jumps off the bed and runs to the kitchen ahead of me. I groggily follow behind, running my fingers through my hair, messy from sleeping. I blink a few times, trying to shake the heavy feeling from my eyelids. When that fails, I decide to try a cup of coffee. As I enter the kitchen and reach for the cupboard, I bump into Dexter. My brother.

Suddenly, thoughts of last night come rushing back and my heart starts to race._ Oh, God. He knows. He fucking knows. I confessed to my brother that I'm in love with him._ I also consider what actually happened. It could have been much worse. Despite being my biggest supporter and best friend throughout my entire life, Dexter never knows the right things to say. When I become emotional, he backs away. Last night should have made him very uncomfortable, but I think of the way I fell asleep, so safe and warm in his arms. Everything was perfect. I don't think I've ever loved or respected him more than I did in that moment. But I try to keep my thoughts together. Did he really have a choice? I practically begged him to stay. This confirms absolutely nothing about his feelings towards me.

"Hey," he says, lightly pulling my hand from the cupboard handle. His hazel eyes meet mine, and they seem to be overflowing with something, although I can't quite place what that something is. I can barely breathe as I look back at him, and his touch feels like fire against my skin. Suddenly I begin to wonder if he's going to do something crazy like kiss me with Harrison in the next room.

"I poured you some coffee already; it's on the table," he says, breaking the tension. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm overthinking every move, and it's going to drive me insane. I'm embarrassed for even considering anything romantic in such a simple interaction.

"Thanks," I mutter, and I hurry to take my place at the table next to Harrison before I can fuck anything else up. Dexter arrives with a plate full of pancakes, and the sight of him makes my stomach flutter with renewed embarrassment. I look down and grab for my coffee cup, taking too large of a gulp. It scalds my throat and I choke momentarily.

"Are you okay?" Dexter asks me.

"Yes, I'm fine. Jesus," I respond, too harshly, before I realize that he was only asking about the choking incident. He probably hasn't even noticed the odd behavior I've been exhibiting throughout the morning. He looks at me quizzically as he adds a pancake to Harrison's plate and begins cutting it into bite-sized pieces. It's as if whatever happened last night didn't even phase him.

"I'm sorry," I say, although I'm not quite sure what it is I'm apologizing for. I take two pancakes of my own, and I begin to eat them after adding butter and syrup. I take a deep breath. This doesn't have to be awkward. I can act like Dexter, ignore what happened last night, just pretend things are normal.

"It's nice to have breakfast with my two favorite guys," I say. "We haven't done this for a while."

Dexter nods. "Harrison missed his aunt, right buddy?" he says.

Harrison nods, chewing a mouthful of pancake. He's already cleaned his plate. "Can I go play?" he asks. Dexter nods, and Harrison hops down off his chair, heading to a bag that Dexter brought along. He pulls out a yellow truck and begins to push it around the living room, complete with _vroom-vroom_ noises.

"Is it okay if he stays with you for the day? Jamie's busy, and I told him you would take him to the beach," Dexter requests.

"Where the fuck are you going?" I ask.

"Deb," he responds, giving me a reprimanding look at my use of a swear word in the presence of Harrison. I glance over at my nephew, but he's not paying attention. He's fixated on his truck, ignoring his surroundings. Somewhat like his father, who's clearly so focused on something else that he can't spend a Saturday together with his family. Jealousy flares up inside me, as I envision him spending it with stupid Hannah McKay in her fucking greenhouse.

"I have some things to take care of," he tells me. I don't consider it an explanation, and he can tell by the glare I give him in return.

"I guess I don't have much of a say in the matter, do I?" I ask. He shrugs.

"I owe you," he replies.

"Damn fucking right," I answer, trying to keep up my stern anger. But something about Dexter makes his decisions perfectly acceptable in my mind. I'm always rationalizing in order to not stay upset with him for long, because truthfully, I can't imagine where I'd be without him. As I look into his pleading, hazel eyes, I can't help the smile which tugs at the right corner of my mouth. I reach up to rest my fingers against his freshly shaven cheek.

"I don't like the thought of someone else having your attention all day," I tease. I immediately regret it when he suddenly pulls away.

"Bye, Harrison," he calls.

"Bye, Daddy," the little boy calls back, finally tearing his attention away from the truck to dash over and hug his father's legs. Dexter scoops him up in his arms, tickling him as he shrieks with laughter.

"Be good for Aunt Deb, okay?" he says. Harrison nods as he's set back onto his own two feet.

"See you later," he says to me, before leaving via the front door.

"Can we go swim?" Harrison asks excitedly, as soon as the door shuts. And just like that, I've taken on the role of mothering a child. Motherhood has never appealed to me, but my nephew is a special exception. It's hard not to be happy when lathering his little round face, absolutely beaming with genuine enthusiasm for life, with sunscreen. We spend hours building elaborate sand castles and chasing each other through the salty ocean waves. It reminds me of the days I spent on the beach during my own childhood, always with my big brother.

I remember the time I got stuck in a rip current at age ten. One second, I was standing in waist-deep water, hitting a beach ball back and forth with Dexter, and the next second, water was hurtling me away from shore. Obviously I knew what rip currents were, but the experience shocked me.

"Dex! Dex!" I yelled, crying. I flailed my arms, slapping against the water, trying unsuccessfully to fight it. "Dex, I'm gonna die!" I cried.

"Deb, just relax and wait until you get to the end of the current," Dexter told me. I didn't relax. By the time the current ended, which was probably only thirty seconds later but felt like hours, I was exhausted and terrified. Dexter managed to make his way towards me outside of the current, and he dragged me back to shore. He didn't save my life or anything. I was being a baby. I simply overreacted about something fairly normal and harmless. But the great thing about Dexter was the way he didn't mention it afterwards. Where my friends' siblings would have made endless jokes, Dex chuckled about it once and left it. I loved that about him.

The memory makes me smile as I take Harrison into the house to make dinner. I don't have much on hand, but I dig up a box of macaroni and cheese, which he's absolutely ecstatic about. We eat together, and he tells me about his friends at preschool and the field trip they took to see a dinosaur exhibit at a museum. I'm struck by the fact that my nephew is actually a tiny human being, with his own thoughts and ways of communicating them. I find fresh clothes in his bag, and I decide to give him a bath to wash the salty ocean residue from his hair and skin. I'm starting to get slightly concerned that Dexter hasn't returned yet. It's 8 o'clock. I don't know what time Harrison usually goes to bed, but we watch a movie together and he falls asleep in my lap.

The time ticks by. One hour, two hours. I doze off on the couch next to Harrison, and I'm awakened by the sound of the key in the front door at 12:45. 12:45? My mind imagines all the things that could have happened. My heart sinks beneath my stomach as I picture Dexter fucking that stupid bitch. I'm ready to yell at him, to command that he take responsibility for his son, but then I see his face as he walks in the door.

His expression is indescribable, eyes wide, hands shaking. He appears to be in a state of utter shock, and I quickly go to him.

"Come here," I say, leading him to the couch and sitting him down. "It's okay, it's okay, you're here."

My heart is full of some kind of emotion, wrenching it, turning me into the protector, the strong one. I haven't seen him like this since Rita died. Our movements have woken Harrison, who quietly asks,

"Daddy, you home?"

Dexter takes a deep breath.

"I need to get him home," he says.

"What happened?" I ask, frustrated that he is emotionally shutting me out yet again.

"Nothing, I'm fine," he says, standing and pulling Harrison into his arms.

"Dex, you can't just leave like this," I reply.

"Daddy, I'm tired," Harrison whines into Dexter's shoulder, still half asleep.

"I have to. I'll call you in the morning," he says. And just like that, my enigma of a brother leaves with my sleepy nephew. I am left alone yet again.


	3. Chapter 3

_Notes: I've learned to not write cliffhangers without actually knowing where they're going. Dexter's reaction seemed like a good way to end the last chapter, but it took me a long time to figure out a reason why he would have done that. Plus I'm just a huge procrastinator. I'm using this to procrastinate on other things right now. You guys are so amazing and encouraging. It is really exciting to post new chapters and such an honor to have you reading my work. I love all the positive feedback; I'm glad you are all enjoying it! And without further ado, here's Chapter 3 :)_

Chapter 3: Dexter

I leave Deb's with a sensation of freedom. My son is safe with his aunt, who loves him, and my life is void of the responsibility of human interactions. Last night, I began stalking a new kill. It takes my mind off of the increasingly complicated Deb situation, and I've found the perfect candidate for my table.

Three different teenagers from the same high school in Miami all committed suicide within several weeks of each other. The community was devastated, but there wasn't much they could do. They implemented suicide prevention classes, but I found the events rather suspicious. All three teenagers, two female and one male, were of Hispanic descent. The police determined that since the students were friends, they must have been involved in a suicide pact. But they also had a certain teacher in common. Dwayne Gray, chemistry. The more I looked into Dwayne's life, the less likely the explanation of suicide seemed. Dwayne was a political extremist, typically laying low, but found in the background of a newspaper photo of an anti-immigration protest. A chemistry teacher would obviously have a basic knowledge of poisons. I just need to stop by his house to find some sort of proof. I'm not sure exactly what I'm looking for, but I'll have plenty of time. Dwayne spends his weekends in Naples, visiting with his great-aunt.

I take the highway exit for my apartment. I'll stop in to change clothes, and then I'll be on my way. I pour the cup of coffee still left in the pot and leave it on the counter to cool. As I pull my form-fitting brown shirt over my head, I'm interrupted by a knock at the door. Who could be visiting me on a Saturday? I pull back the edge of the curtain, and my breath catches when I recognize Hannah McKay. It's hard to look at her without this strange feeling happening in my stomach, and I wonder if that's what love feels like.

I open the door, and she smiles nervously.

"Hey, I'm...sorry to bother you, but it's just...I miss you. I hadn't heard from you, and I got nervous. I don't usually do this sort of thing. I mean, actually now I'm embarrassed. I should have just called. I wanted to give you this, though..." her voice trails off, and she avoids eye contact as she thrusts a small potted plant at me. It's an orchid, with a long stem and a delicate light pink flower. It reminds me of Hannah, the way her delicate nature sharply contrasts with Deb's initial harshness. Whereas Deb possesses deeply guarded, complex emotions, Hannah is simple, light...even flirty. Perhaps it's because she's just met me; I haven't had a chance to corrupt her yet.

I pull her tiny frame into a hug. "It's no big deal, I'm glad you stopped," I tell her. "I was planning to head out, but it's nothing urgent. Come on in."

I set the orchid on my desk, but Hannah shakes her head, moving it to the windowsill.

"Orchids are hard flowers to grow," she explains. "They require a lot of sunlight, and you should water it about once a week. I potted it in chips of bark rather than soil; if there's excess water caught in the pot, the orchid will die."

I nod, impressed with her extensive knowledge on the subject. I've always loved people who can explain things passionately. It's not the passion I love, but the possibility of acquiring facts in their pure and simple form. Emotionally charged conversations make me nervous, but I thrive on conversations grounded in facts. The orchid still resembles Hannah, requiring a combination of specific factors to flourish. Like Hannah's dreams of moving to Argentina and beginning a new life. Bu someone else's addition of too much water could easily weigh her down, smothering the life out of her.

"It's very nice. I don't have a green thumb, but I'll try my best," I assure her.

She smiles, and the silence becomes awkward. I can't tell what she's expecting to happen, what she hoped to gain by coming here.

"I just poured the last cup of coffee, but I could start another pot if you'd like?" I offer.

"No, no. You mentioned that you were leaving. I won't keep you," she says. "I just wanted to drop the plant off and to say hi. But don't be afraid to call me, okay? I worry about you."

I nod. Great, just what I need. Somebody else thinking about me too much. "Will do," I tell her. I give her a quick peck on the lips before she leaves; the residual tingly effects resonate on my lips, crawling across my face and pulling the corners of my mouth into a smile. I quickly rub them away with the back of my hand. Whatever this is, I don't need to worry about it now. My dark passenger is calling, begging for an answer.

I enter Dwayne's apartment, effortlessly picking the lock. Hands clad in gloves, I rifle through drawers, coming up with nothing but a bottle of melatonin and some old crossword puzzles, half finished. I flip backwards through the planner on his desk, but Dwayne isn't stupid enough to write anything on the actual death dates. A pile of ungraded tests left on the coffee table, a vase of recently dead light colored roses. I'm becoming restless, doubting my intuition when presented with such a frustrating absence of evidence. Finally, I discover a thick journal, hidden underneath the false bottom of Dwayne's nightstand drawer.

I flip through the pages. A chronicle of Dwayne's life for several years. His hatred of Hispanics, his quest to Miami to clean them out. Dwayne is every bit as horrible as I imagined, and I soon reach details about the making of the poison. The way he slipped it into cups of coffee, took advantage of the students, and set their deaths up to look like suicides in their own homes. All while their parents toiled away at jobs, trying to earn a better living for their offspring. Even I'm appalled at his methods, and I've seen my fair share of villains over time. Nonetheless, I feel relieved, as I always do when my instincts prove correct. Dwayne will return on Monday, and the prospect of having him on my table feels refreshing and thrilling.

I'm so thrilled, in fact, that I check my watch and decide to make dinner plans with Hannah Why not? Deb might not be happy if she knew, but she won't know. I'll go to dinner early. I'll be back at Deb's place by seven, I can bring ice cream for her and Harrison. We'll spend time together. I am in complete control. I can balance all of this. I've done it before, and I'll do it again.

Hannah and I meet at a nice restaurant at 5:00. She's wearing a pretty dress, pink-like the orchid, of course-and I compliment her. We sit on a back patio, sipping wines with undertones of fruit and watching the colors of the sky change as the sun sinks below the horizon.

"The sky...it's beautiful," Hannah says. I smile and nod in return, not knowing exactly what to say. With Deb, silence is never awkward, but with Hannah it's sometimes painful. I touch her hand instead, and she seems to find this pleasant. It seems to be exactly what a light, fluffy sort of person like her would want.

The food is delicious, and we manage to find things to chat about among the clinking of silverware and the twinkling lights that line the patio as the color of the sky gradually approaches black. I'm not much of a person for ambience, but I suppose this is what some may call enchanting. Hannah sure seems to think so. As we leave, I take her arm and look into her face, flushed and beaming with happiness. She's beautiful, radiant. As we cross through an alleyway en route to the parking lot, I stop to really kiss her. To taste the fruity wine on her skin and to feel the warmth radiating from her smooth, soft arms.

It only lasts for a moment before she pulls away in alarm. The last thing I hear is, "Dexter, look out!" before my world crashes into blackness.

I come to in the backseat of a car, rushing down some road. I can't tell where. I'm bound and gagged, laying across the backseat. I can't see out the windows, but I can see a mysterious figure in black driving. Many people exist who could want me dead. None of those options appeal to me. Panic sets in, and my heart begins to race. To yell would be useless; for all I know we're hurtling down an interstate at 80 miles an hour. Nobody's going to hear me. I strain my wrists against their ropes, but this attempt proves to be in vain as well. I'm unarmed. Wherever this car is headed, I'm going too.

The figure in black's driving skills prove to be absolutely horrendous. The car careens around corners, slamming my body into the back of the passenger seat, my head sharply hitting the door. This could be the end. I think of Harrison. He'll be okay, he's with Deb. Will Deb be okay? I have no idea. I have to assume that she will eventually...In fact, maybe things will turn out better for Deb and Harrison this way. What about Hannah? What happened to her? One second I'm kissing her, sweet like a flower, and the next second I'm being quickly transported to my impending demise. I can't accept this fate, however. I try to remain confident that I can pull through. Deb and Harrison will not be okay, they need me, they love me. And I love them.

My new girlfriend becomes the farthest thing from my mind in my time of crisis. I close my eyes against the yellow glow of streetlights streaming through the windows, the fast motion making me carsick. Behind my eyes is Debra. My deep, beautiful sister falling asleep in my arms. I can almost smell her hair, feel its silkiness, and I start to swear to whatever higher power is listening that I'll hold her forever if only I make it back home. I find myself remembering the smallest of things-the freckles on her arms and her pronounced collarbones. As my world crashes down around me, she is the one thing that I beg the universe for.

That and my son. My little Harrison. I can feel him in my arms, shaking his head, vehemently insisting that he's old enough to brush his own teeth. I wish for a thousand more goodnight kisses to his blond hair, and for a thousand more breaths full of Johnson's baby shampoo. I wish for bedtime with my son, as my sister grins happily in the doorway. I wish to leave his bedroom, to leave this car, and to fall into her thin arms. I wish and wish and wish, but the wishes are unlike me and can do nothing to improve my situation. I need to think logically, to be myself, if I ever hope to escape. I need a plan, but I can't plan when I don't even know what is happening to me. Wet droplets run across my face, and I look up to see if it's raining through the sunroof. But the sunroof is closed. It's only my tears.

After a time period that seems like years, the car screeches to a halt. The black figure slams open the door and grabs me, pulling me from the car. It isn't very difficult, as I'm decidedly helpless. A second figure enters the scene, slapping a blindfold over my eyes before I have the opportunity to observe any of my surroundings. Two sets of hands, one at my ankles and another at my shoulders, manage to drag me somewhere. Their steps are bouncy and choppy. It would be useless to fight. I flash back to my three-year-old self screaming in the shipping container, the last time I felt this helpless.

I'm hoisted onto a chair, hard and wooden. Someone snatches the blindfold from my face, and I'm in a small room, surrounded by damp, gray walls. The chair appears to be the only object in the room. A single light bulb dimly exudes fluorescent bluish-white to a limited radius. A blonde woman steps into my view, anger distorting her facial features. I recognize her immediately, her disdain for me severely more pronounced than our last encounter. Rita's mother.

I have no idea how she managed to get me here, or who is helping her. I assume the figure in black was a hired hit man, but the particulars aren't exactly important. The real concern is the fact that I'm bound to a chair, helpless, in the presence of a woman who hates me and is wielding a knife. She rips the silver duct tape from my mouth, knife flashing dangerously close to my neck, and she begins to speak.

"Who was the stupid, fucking slut?" she demands. I assume she means Hannah, although she wasn't actually there to see her, but apparently the question is rhetorical. Gail continues without stopping,

"I tried to protect my daughter from you. I tried to protect her from all three of her terrible choices, but none could possibly have been worse than you. I thought abuse was bad, I thought drugs were bad, but you?! Oh, that's right. I know. You were a fucking serial killer all along, and it is your fault my baby is dead!"

The guilt that comes along with the words hits me harder than anything I've ever experienced. Deb has said the words to me before, but they bite with the same stinging force the second time.

"You endangered my grandchildren throughout the entirety of your relationship with Rita!" Gail screams. "You killed her! And now you think you can just replace her? Where does it end? How many lives must you endanger before you realize that you are fucking toxic? You are horrible to everyone around you!"

"Of course I can't replace her," I say. But I can't really defend myself. She's absolutely right. I've been toxic since childhood, a vortex sucking in all the things I love and drowning them. First Harry, then Rita. Who's next? Deb? Harrison? I have to get out of here, I have to make things right, but I can't think straight with guilt sitting heavily in my stomach like bags of sand.

I twist my wrists behind my back, in an attempt to create slack in the rope. I twist as fast as I can, and the effects are barely noticeable, if there are effects at all. Maybe I'm just being optimistic in the hopes of somehow escaping. My fingers fumble, grasping at loops and knots. I try to concentrate without making the slightest change in my facial expression.

"I'll give you a hint, Dexter," Gail hisses, bringing her face too close to mine. "You're done endangering lives right now, because I am going to end yours." My fingers grasp frantically, and I throw my entire torso into the effort, abandoning my attempt to remain inconspicuous. This is really the end. Gail Brandon will end my life, and I deserve it for what I did to her daughter.

Suddenly, the door to the small, gray room bursts open and a gunshot simultaneously rings out. It's sloppy; it hits Gail in the thigh, but it's enough to knock her down. As Gail crawls for the attacker, I realize that it's none other than Hannah McKay. Gail continues to crawl towards her, injured, but with her knife bared. Hannah aims and fires again. This time the bullet lodges in Gail's temple and she is as good as dead Hannah momentarily stares, shaking; it's her first kill via gunshot. She plucks the knife from Gail's grasp and proceeds to shakily saw the ropes from my wrists and ankles.

I'm in shock. Gail lays on the floor, dead. She didn't do anything wrong; she tried to avenge the death of her daughter. And yet, she's suffered the same fate-death by Dexter. On the other hand, my life remains intact, thanks to Hannah McKay. I suppose that means I'm forever indebted to her, but I can't feel anything for her in my state of shock. My flower of a girlfriend seems fatally tainted by the fact that she shot Gail Brandon. In front of me. In this room.

"Where did you get a gun?" I ask.

"Concealed weapons are legal in Florida, Dexter," she replies. "In my situation, I figured I might need it for defense someday. That day was today. When those men ran off with you, they left me behind. I followed them here. I had to save you."

"Thank you," I weakly reply. It's the only thing I can manage to say about the events that just took place.

"Hannah, you need to take me to my car," I tell her. She nods. We leave in her car, headed back towards the restaurant. Both of us stare straight ahead in silence for the duration of the trip. When we arrive at my car, I'm still quivering and terrified.

"Dexter, you shouldn't drive like this," Hannah says. "Look at you, you're white as a ghost. Let me take you home." I shake my head, earning her hand on my shoulder.

"Get _off_ me," I retort, my tone more hostile than I intended. "I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow."

The drive to Deb's is a blur, but as soon as her lights come into view, I anticipate safety and warmth. I recall my thousands of wishes, all revolving around Deb and Harrison. Everything I want is inside that house. I unlock the door. Deb sees my face, and she knows what to do, how to care for me. She leads me to the couch where Harrison sleeps peacefully, unharmed, still existing. The wish to hold Deb resurfaces, but the guilt hasn't yet left my stomach. All my wishes are in front of me-her arm freckles, her gorgeous hair, her deep eyes filled with concern. My body struggles to reach for her, but my guilt holds me back.

Harrison stirs, making the decision for me. I have to take him home. I take a deep breath, tearing myself away when all I want is to be here. To feel her. To hold her. Instead, I gather my son in my arms and leave before she can touch me. I know that the slightest contact will break my resolve. I can't let that happen. Harrison and I leave her behind, but as soon as he drifts to sleep in the backseat, I break anyways. I sob from the guilt, from the influx of emotions, from the debt to Hannah. My life is a mess. Gail Brandon was right. I am a vortex. And I am afraid to survive.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Notes:**__ I wish I could say that I__'__ve been really busy or something, but I__'__ve just been slacking. I finished writing this chapter on the beach today though, and it__'__s the first chapter I__'__ve typed on my new Mac, so life is good :) BrianaBree, I definitely wanted Dexter to stay and tell Deb what was going on last chapter, but sadly I had already written the scene where he left so I had to stick to it! gangling freak, AngryHellFish, ROSEY cheeks, and shadow, thanks for keeping up and leaving such nice reviews. Never be afraid to ramble, I love any and all feedback! guest, you didn__'__t post your review TOO long ago, so hopefully I__'__ve updated soon enough for you! I think you guys are really going to like this chapter. By the way, does anyone think of the song Stay With Me by Sam Smith every time they read this? Because I think of it every time I update. Finally, one more thing. Just in case it might bother anybody, I want to give you guys a trigger warning that there is a scene with self-inflicted pain in here and also quite a few mentions of anxiety. Other than that, enjoy!_

Chapter 4: Debra

I close my eyes and feel the classical music pulsating through my headphones and resonating in my eardrums. My feet pound rhythmically against the belt of the treadmill beneath me. I tilt my head backwards, stretch my neck, roll my shoulders…I open my eyes. The bright red numbers claim it's already been five miles. My heart pounds, but my head still reels. I give up. It's useless to persist, and if I do I'll be late for work.

I leave my phone on the counter and tug out my hair tie, the strands of my hair pulling painfully against the roots, as I head to the bathroom. I peel off my sweaty clothes and climb into the shower. The running water feels warm and comforting against my skin. I tilt my face up, allowing it to trickle across my cheeks and between my lips. I've never liked being alone. It puts me on edge, amplifies the sounds of my thoughts caught inside. But lately, being alone terrifies me. Normal activities like running and the shower lead to recurring nightmares. I allow myself to fall back into the happiness I felt with Lundy. I look into his eyes and his handsome face.

"Debra," he touches my cheek and smiles, that close-lipped smile that only he can pull off, and I'm filled with longing. I hug him, pulling him closer and closer to me, as if that can stop what I know will happen next. The loud gunshot. The fear in his eyes, melting to lifelessness as I watch him on the ground. My eyes snap open, and I'm back in the shower, alone. I can't breathe. No matter how many thousands of times I experience the same event, it's unbearable. I lean against the wall's wet tiles, whimpering like a sick pathetic puppy. I sob, gasping, trying to recover my breathing, and for what? My life isn't worth it. I don't deserve to be here. I slap the wall, angry, hurt, shattered, broken.

I turn my back to the running water, reaching behind me to inch the handle hotter, hotter. The water scalds my shoulder blades, but I don't stop. The pain keeps me grounded, despite the feelings I have of being disconnected from myself. I continue to push the handle further, further, until I writhe away from the burning, blistering sensation.

"Fuck," I grit my teeth together and turn off the water. My morning routine. Intense pain. The only way to clear my head and to return to myself. That and the anti-anxiety shit I swig down at the direction of my psychiatrist. So fucking broken that it bears its own diagnosis. As if I haven't created these problems myself, by my own decisions.

With no major cases in progress, work presents another perfect opportunity for me to lose myself within my mind. I smile and nod as necessary to the other members of my department. Angel, Quinn, Masuka…This department used to mean the world to me, and perhaps it still does, but my world lays in shattered pieces across the universe. I can't muster up even the smallest inclination to socialize, and I shut my office door behind me.

I sift through a few papers, planting my signature where it's required, and ultimately waiting for the one thing that brings perfect clarity to my life. Dexter. I haven't heard from him since he left Saturday night, and I'm so nervous. I start to wonder if he's been seeing Hannah, if he's purposely trying to keep his distance from me, or if he's simply been busy. But who the fuck is busy on a Sunday?

I watch through the window of my office as he walks in, toting a box of donuts. He stops by each desk, allowing everyone to pluck a pastry from the mix. I nervously twirl my hair in anticipation as he comes nearer to my door. What do I say, what the fuck do I say? That I need him to kiss me, to fucking hold me until I fall asleep again? I want to disappear with him and to lose myself in his touch, where my haunting thoughts can't find me. I also want to know absolutely everything about him. I want to know what he's thinking and what he's feeling when his hazel eyes meet mine. It hurts. I look at him, and I see a spectacular human being who means absolutely everything to me. It doesn't matter that he hurts me or that he's a serial killer, I simply need him in every sense of the word.

My heart's racing so fast, and my mind has gotten to the point where I'm planning to shove him against the wall and kiss him as soon as he walks through the door. So maybe it's a good thing that he chooses that moment to go to his lab, shutting the door behind him. I beat myself up, feeling the crushing weight of being so stupid and allowing my expectations to get the better of me. I'm always wrong, every single time, and especially when it comes to Dexter. My disappointment turns to outrage at the thought of him avoiding me. What gives him that right, after all the shit he's put me through? Why can't he get it through his fucking skull that not a motherfucking soul in this world can love him unconditionally the way I do? Because that's it, that's really it. I do love him.

I stand up to go confront him, but I'm interrupted by Captain LaGuerta, who chooses that exact moment to poke her head in the door.

"Morgan, you got a minute?" she asks. Fuck. My mind definitely cannot focus on anything job-related right now, except possibly the way the light from the computer monitor radiates around Dexter's fluffy hair in his dimly lit lab. I think of the lab's scent—the scent of him mingled with a clean, sterile aroma. That's where I want to be right now.

And yet I nod. Partly because I do have a minute, and partly because LaGuerta is my superior and can exert her right to any of my minutes at any time. I return to my desk and gesture for her to sit down. She complies.

"What did you say happened at that church a few weeks ago?" she asks abruptly.

Jesus Christ, what has she found out? She knows exactly what happened, or at least my version of what happened.

"I don't know, Captain, like I said, I got there and—"

"Cut the crap, Deb. I don't need any of this 'captain' bullshit right now, I need to hear the truth. What do you know?" LaGuerta interrupts.

_What do _you_ know, is the better question._

"All I know is what I saw, and that was a church up in flames by the time I arrived," I state, as calmly as possible considering the quivering, icy nerves flowing through my veins. "Do you know something?"

"I found a blood slide at the crime scene," she explains. My heart pounds in my ears, my cheeks flush hotly. "I asked Masuka about it. Our forensics department doesn't take glass blood slides. The only person to ever take blood slides was the Bay Harbor Butcher. You know I've never quite believed that Doakes was killing people for all that time—"

"With all due respect, Captain, none of us suspected Doakes," I interject. "But unfortunately, the evidence contradicts our own feelings. It's devastating, almost impossible, to see someone you care about in such a horrible way. I know that as much as anybody. But sometimes we have to accept the truth for what it is. It's hard, but you're strong."

She holds up a hand, a cuff of several gold bangles glinting in the light from overhead.

"You're right," she says. "You're absolutely right, but let me finish. I've been thinking, and Doakes always thought there was something odd about Dexter. Deb, what if he was right? What if Dexter's the Bay Harbor Butcher, and he killed Doakes after he got too close to finding him out?"

"I can tell you've been thinking a lot," I reply, slowly, carefully measuring each word. "I believe that all of that thinking has worn you out. You're seeing pathways that don't exist to ridiculous conclusions. Rethink this before you tear the department apart."

"Look into it, that's all I'm asking," she pleads. "You can't let your emotions cloud your judgment. I'm coming to you in complete confidence, because you're a good cop and I trust you. Don't let me down, Deb."

"I have work to do," I say, without responding to her request. "I think it's best if you leave."

I stand up as she walks out, and I quickly close the door behind her, leaning against it and allowing my breaths to come in gasps. Of course. A fucking anxiety attack. As if the day couldn't get any worse. And it's only 9:30 in the morning. I sink to the floor, shaking, trying to remind myself that I need oxygen despite the pain closing in on my chest. I drag myself to my feet again, unwilling to let anyone see me acting like a fucking weak tit. An extra anxiety pill. I swallow it, steadily gulping half of the large bottle of water to follow. I breathe. I need to take actions to stop the worst from happening.

As I manage to bring my body back under control, I walk towards Dexter's lab. It's like I'm floating there, moving without actually propelling myself or even residing within my own body. He'll know what to do. Am I still angry with him? I can't afford to be. We have to manage this together, the same way we've overcome everything else in our lives.

I nervously enter the dark room, closing the door behind me. How the fuck can the simple act of speaking to my brother terrify me? I flip the blinds closed. Nobody needs to know that we're having this conversation, specifically not LaGuerta. I've caught Dexter off guard, and he quickly closes the window on his computer screen, swiveling around in his chair so his eyes meet mine. He jumps up to forcibly embrace me, his body clumsily meeting mine with fiery strength everywhere it touches. My heart fucking hates me; as if it weren't racing enough as it is, it picks up speed to a pace that can't be healthy. I need to get him off of me, to talk to him. What the fuck does he think he's doing?

I feel his lips brushing softly against my temple, above my ear. He burrows his nose into my hair, his muscular arms encircling my waist, making me feel tiny. My hands find his chest and attempt to push him backwards, but I'm no match for his strength, not to mention I can feel my resolve quickly slipping away. God, do I want this, but not here, not now. My arms give in, circling around his shoulders. I feel his tongue and his lips, gently pressing, tickling my neck. I turn my head to press my own lips against his cheek, closing my eyes as he turns to connect his mouth with mine.

It's heaven. My mind is finally calm and quiet in this attachment. We're joined at the mouth, inseparable. I tug his bottom lip with my teeth and lightly comb my fingers through the thick, coarse hair on either side of his face. My nails lightly circle his ears, and his hands slide down my back, pulling me still closer. Our lips continue to wrestle against each other. My surroundings disappear. Nothing exists for me besides the smell of Dexter's aftershave, the warmth of his skin, and the strength tensing in his body, hidden by his gentle tenderness. He breaks away to reach behind him and lock the door. It only takes that small pause for my anxious thoughts to return instantaneously.

"Dex, I need to talk to you. And we can't do this here. I'm the goddamn head of the department," I tell him.

"Exactly," he responds, bringing his sweetly scented face close to mine once again.

"No," I say firmly. I know if I allow even the slightest touch again, I'll cave in to my physical desires and be rendered incapable of conscious thoughts or decision-making. Those are important assets right now, considering the imminent danger to both of us. Dexter recognizes the concern on my face and respectfully returns to his senses.

"What's going on?" he asks.

I shake my head and rake my fingers backwards through my hair, clutching it, and feeling my throat constrict with fear until I'm choking back tears. He's fucking insane. I feel dirty and gross at the idea of _making out with my brother_. Why me? Why does everything in my life have to turn to shit? My thoughts, my emotions, will fucking eat me alive. I've stopped breathing again, and Dexter surveys my expression with genuine sympathy. He reaches lightly for my wrist, but I snatch it away. I turn and fold at the waist, gasping for air, my hair hanging like a curtain on either side of my face.

"LaGuerta suspects that you're the Bay Harbor Butcher." I manage to squeeze through the heavy weight in my chest. "And Dexter, I think I'm fucking going insane. Help me." My already unnaturally high-pitched voice catches at the end, and I start to sob. I pull myself upright. I can barely make out Dexter's face, blank with alarm, through my blurry, hot tears. I fall emphatically into him, burying my face in the freshly laundered scent of his shoulder. It's the second time I've cried on him in the last four days, but he doesn't seem to mind. His arms hold me, supporting me, and one hand gently strokes my back between my shoulder blades.

"_Shh, shh_," Dexter breathes. "I've got you. Deb, we'll make it right. Everything's going to be okay. Just trust me, and I will help you fix this." And somehow, after all of the horrible things that have resulted from Dexter's choices and his haphazard damage control, I do trust him. Perhaps because it's my only option.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hi everyone! I hope you don__'__t hate me for taking so long to update. I went to college and became ridiculously busy. As always, your reviews encourage me to sit down and make time. I left the notebook that I use to handwrite out my chapters at home, so I__'__m typing this one. I__'__m hoping that doesn__'__t change the quality at all__—__I__'__ll be sure to give it an extra read-through before posting. I worked on it in little bits over time, whenever I saw something that reminded me, __"__Hey! I have a fanfic to work on!__" __That__'__s what took a lot of time. AngryHellFish, you have some good ideas! :) We__'__ll see what actually happens (I__'__ll probably be just as surprised as all of you!)_

Chapter 5: Dexter

A syringe to the neck. Liquid injected into the carotid artery, body collapses heavily into my arms. Kill room. Plastic wrap—knees, hips, shoulders. A slice to the cheek, bright red drop transferred to a blood slide. My methodical routine. It never changes.

I begin a dialogue with the groggily awakening figure on the table. The words escape without any thought, yet they are the correct words. I slam my index finger against the photos taped to the wall, I press it between the figure's eyes amid pleas for forgiveness.

The captain of my department suspects that I'm a serial killer. She's absolutely right. My sister is terrified. I'm terrified too. I kissed her. In a moment of passion, I gave into the desire to possess her. I held her and felt her lips against mine. The release felt infinitely better than the one I'm about to experience. I crave her, I need her, but I know that I've been inside of her for a long time, a sickly cancer flowing like molasses through her veins, poisoning her. The little red number in the corner of my phone tells me that Hannah McKay has called five times since our last encounter, but I can't bear to talk to her. How do you explain to the woman who's saved your life that she should have allowed you to die, that she probably would have allowed you to die if she had known you were going to fall in love with your sister?

I summon my dark passenger who subdues all the other thoughts racing through my mind. I close my eyes to raise my knife, but instead of the backs of my eyelids dripping with blood, I see my little sister. She's twelve years old and laughing, a light and musical sound. I'm not much older, and as I watch her I feel the familiar flutter in my chest. The lightness that means Debra. I didn't understand it then. Maybe I don't even understand it now. But it's always been there, ever since I can remember. The inexplicable need to be close to her, physically and mentally, to feel her warmth and happiness. Deb's laughing face fades away. I'm fifteen and lying in the dark. She's too old to be afraid of monsters, yet I hear her quiet footsteps approaching as the door creaks open. I slow my breathing. I can't let her know I'm awake. I'm trying to keep up the facade that I'm normal, and a normal brother would never let his sister curl up on his floor while he was awake. He would be annoyed with her, he would make fun of her, but I'm fighting the urge to invite her into my bed so we can curl up together.

I plunge the knife downwards into the victim's chest. Good riddance, Dwayne Gray. The world goes still for a moment, before I begin the familiar process of packaging a kill's body parts. It doesn't calm me like it used to. I'm an entirely changed person. I feel lost, a longing for something greater than what myself or another kill can provide.

I'm not good at damage control. My typical strategy involves avoidance, but killing has proved itself to be a useless coping mechanism for this situation. As I leave the marina, I can feel myself making the wrong choice. The choice to call Deb, to opt for her intoxicating ability to make the stress go away. The choice to avoid plans, to live in the moment, even though I will inevitably pay for it with suffering later.

She answers on the first ring and agrees to meet at my apartment. When I get home, I say goodnight to Jamie and prepare Harrison for bedtime. We read _The Hungry Caterpillar_ twice before I hear Deb's key turn in the front door's lock. The anticipation of her entrance starts the familiar Deb feeling in my chest and stomach. She quietly stands in the doorway to Harrison's room, as he requests one last story, _Goodnight Moon_. I glance at Deb. Harrison's copy of _Goodnight Moon_ is the same battered copy I read to her when she was three and I was five. I could already devour chapter books at that point, and I preferred science fiction, but when little Debra requested _Goodnight Moon _in her tiny, delicate voice every night, I couldn't say no. Her eyes flick downwards and a real smile spreads across her lips, parting them to show her teeth. She remembers.

"How about Aunt Deb does the honors?" I ask Harrison. He whips his head around, just noticing her appearance. He jumps out of my lap, running towards her and flinging his arms out for a hug. She scoops him up, turning him upside down and tickling him until he shrieks with laughter. She plants several kisses on his cheeks, causing him to squeal even louder.

"I loved this book when I was your age," Deb says. "Your dad used to read it to me every night."

Harrison appears stunned by the realization that Deb was ever his age. "What about your daddy?" he asks. "Did he read to you, too?"

The smile fades from her face. "Sometimes," she says quietly. "But my daddy worked all the time. He loved his job, and a lot of the time he was too busy or too tired to read to me."

Harrison detects the change in her voice and nods sadly. "My daddy's busy a lot too," he says sympathetically, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger.

The smile returns to her face. "I know," she replies. "But he loves you a lot, and he never misses bedtime! But what do you say, can we give him a break from this last story? I think I might have it under control." Harrison grins and nods. I get up from his bed, and they take my place, curled together, Deb propped up on one elbow and Harrison's head against her chest, his eyes getting gradually sleepier as they follow the words and images on the book's pages. I sit in the chair in the corner, taking in her soothing voice. "Goodnight, room. Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, cow jumping over the moon." When she finishes, she quietly closes the book. Harrison's not quite out yet. He rolls over to face her, reaching his arms around her and snuggling his face into her neck. He's affectionate when he's tired. I've never seen her so happy. Her eyes well up with emotion and she pulls him in closer, kissing the top of his hair. His eyelids droop shut and his breathing deepens. His arms fall limply from her shoulders, yet she lingers, closing her eyes, absentmindedly stroking his back. I let her. I want us to be a family like this always.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check the screen. Hannah McKay. Again. She has no place in this perfect picture, and I firmly select the ignore button. Deb carefully makes her way out of Harrison's bed and pulls the covers around him, tucking him in. She looks at me and smiles, reaching out a hand. My phone gives one last buzz. A voicemail. I ignore it, taking Deb's hand and switching out the light. She closes the door behind her.

I turn to her, taking her in my arms. It's been too long since the last time I've held her, and I pull her as close as I possibly can, trying to squeeze us into one entity rather than two. She's given up trying to fight me, and she meets my lips hungrily with frantic kisses. She's forceful, pushing me towards the couch, her hands wandering across my chest, over my shoulders, down my back. She clutches my shirt as I sit on the couch, grasping her hair, unwilling to let go of her face even for a second. She's making it perfectly clear that she wants me, and it feels surreal. I can't imagine what I've done to deserve everything that I've ever dreamed about tonight.

She sits on my lap, her legs straddling me as I work my tongue and lips down her neck, to her collarbone, and back up again. My hands find their way up the hem of her shirt, and her back arches against the touch. Her hands clutch my hair before fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. My lips reach her jawline, my hands continuing to roam beneath the shirt's soft fabric, tracing the lace of her bra. Her legs tighten around mine as her hands release me. She pulls the shirt over her head, a quick, fluid motion. It's astonishing, to see my sister shirtless, and also intimidating. My hands look vast and overpowering as they spread across her narrow ribs, tightening around the sides of her waist, settling on her hipbones. She hesitates for a moment, separated from me, before her face returns to mine and her hands grasp the sides of my skull. She kisses with her previous intensity, her breaths quick and warm against my skin.

My fingers again find the lace of her bra, and this time I press them beneath the elastic, toying with the clasp. I'm afraid to actually remove her bra—sexually charged Deb is unfamiliar territory for me, and I don't want to ruin anything. I focus on returning her kisses, and she tilts her chin upwards. My lips return to her neck as she quietly moans, "I need you, Dex." The words cause me to slow down, to think. She doesn't need me. What have I done to convince her that she needs me? "Don't stop, please," she begs, tugging on my hair. "I need you, I want you. Take me." The hesitation leaves instantly. The most attractive woman I've had the pleasure of knowing in my life is on my lap, begging me for this. I'm overpowered by the desire to possess her, to control her. I unhook her bra, she shrugs out of it, and it falls to the floor.

My face returns to hers, but she pulls back to pause momentarily. "We shouldn't do this here. We're right outside Harrison's door, we might wake him up." Her voice sounds sensual and enticing. I nod and follow her to my bedroom, where we both undress before falling into bed.

The sex is more than I could have imagined. Deb quickly slips off to sleep afterwards, her head resting on my chest. I run my fingers over her bare back, replaying the sounds of her moans in my mind. I kiss the top of her head, feeling the tenderness of simply being close to her. The lightness in my chest that I want to stay forever. My other worries feel as if they've been lost somewhere far, far away from here. I'm not tired. I can't sleep when everything in my life has finally fallen into place for once. My angelic son, sleeping soundly in another room. My angelic Deb sleeping peacefully on my chest. I trace her ear with my fingertip, maintaining any kind of touch that I can.

I reach over to pick my phone up from my nightstand. I know I shouldn't be listening to the messages now, but everything feels so safe, as if it's surrounded by some sort of heavenly presence. I'll have to listen to the messages at some point, and nothing could ruin my night at this point. I click on the icon.

"Hi, Dexter. I still haven't heard from you…Just wondering what's going on and if you're okay after what happened last weekend. I think you should know, I really love you. And what I did, I'd do it all over again to save you."

"Hey, Dex. I'm sorry to be pushy, but I'm really not doing well tonight. I just feel all this guilt, and I'm really afraid of what's going on between us. It would be really great if you could call me back. I just want to talk about this."

By the third message, her voice sounds desperate, the edges blurred together by a coating of alcohol.

"Don't you get it? I love you. I just want to be with you, that's why I saved you. But I can't believe I killed an innocent woman, I lost control. I did it for you, and you won't even talk to me. How could you do that? Do you think I take murder lightly? I'm begging you, I really don't know how to live with myself. What do I do? How do I live with a death that didn't even help me in any way? I had no reason to do it. I can't justify it, Dexter."

My stomach drops. Guilt? She feels guilty? But how? Hannah McKay is hardly new to the killing process. I envision the gunshot. Its messiness in contrast to a clean poison. They always say that poison is a woman's weapon. Can Hannah McKay kill following somebody else's methods? I should have returned her calls. She sounds absolutely insane. Someone needs to reassure her before she turns herself in, putting both of us at risk for danger. With everything finally falling into place in my life, I can't deal with mental instability and vindictiveness.

"Dexter, I don't have much time left, but I just want one call back. Please. To hear your voice one last time."

The last message hits harder than a bullet.

"Fuck. _Fuck,_" I mutter.

"Mm?" Deb replies sleepily.

I glance at her as I quickly leap out of the bed, throwing my clothes on off the floor. She's not really awake. She won't notice I've left, but I have to get to Hannah's house. I have to save her before it's too late. I can feel her death looming over me, another kill. Entirely my responsibility yet physically beyond my scope.

I drive quickly, speeding but still not approaching quickly enough. As I race through her unlocked front door, I find her lying on the couch. A glass sits on the coffee table. Poison. Of course. I feel her pulse, but she's gone. There's no saving her. She's dead. It might as well be by my hand. It's not the fact that I've taken an innocent life that scares me; technically, Hannah wasn't innocent. It's how quickly I've crumbled her. From a life filled with the motivation of survival to meeting me to needing me to save her. She said she _loved_ me. And look what it did to her.

I can barely breathe as I call the anonymous tip line to report her death. The world that began to fall into place an hour ago has fallen far past its place, the pieces spiraling into oblivion. I feel disconnected from the people I love, because I don't know how to love. I don't know how to care. Harry told me I would never find emotions. I found them, but I certainly can't afford to use them or to give in to them. Everyone is at risk because of me.

_(Notes from me again)__— __I love you all, and I just want to put the suicide prevention hotline number down here in case anybody needs it:__1__–__800__–__273__–__8255__. Suicide is never the answer. Stay strong._


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